The very tail end of September
This should be the season of dahlias. I should be drowning in the things. No such luck sadly. I planted so many, a la Arthur Parkinson, in old galvanised bins, in troughs and in swill kettles. The vast majority sulked. They continue to sulk, although I managed to harvest just enough for the church flower rota. They know to put me on in September, because I am usually famed for my dinnerplate dahlias.
A sidenote: I overheard two dahlia experts in the digital space bemoaning the ubiquity of the term ‘dinnerplate’. No such thing apparently, they are ‘large decorative’. Language includes and excludes, and I shall continue to call them dinnerplates in the same way as I don’t always italicise my botanical names, only when I feel like it. The only constant is change and it is futile to resist.
But if the dahlias have been something of a failure in the wet and stormy autumn, the conditions appear to have favoured nasturtiums like no other season I have ever known. Most of mine were self seeded after I grew ‘Purple Emperor’ and ‘Ladybird Rose’ in the kitchen garden last year. Some of them look purplish or pinkish, but the majority are absolutely astonishing tones of browns and reds. Indeed, I much prefer them to the originals. I cut them with care as I want to leave as many as possible to self-sow, and throw the nasturtium gene dice one more time.
I am making the most of these blooms though, as others feel very thin on the ground. Looking back at photographs from previous Septembers, it seems to be something like a sad end to a funny year. The sanguisorbas are soggy. The borages - big, late self-sown plants - have crashed to the ground under the weight of all the rain. My rudbeckias look positively moth-eaten.
Ah, but the flowers’ loss is the fruits’ gain. The rose hips are more abundant and more deeply red than I can ever remember them being before. I can’t remember if that means a cold or a mild winter. I have quinces by the bucketful. Apples by the truckful. My own winter squash are still on the vine but the local farm shop has Red Kuri piled up in great crates, many of which have made it into my kitchen.
One wins some. One loses some.
Here is a photographic record of the September of a very strange year.
